


Of Him

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver nods and, his tongue still wrapped around Percy's fingers, he mumbles his reply: "Yes," he says, "here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Him

Quiet; the room is quiet. The scattered sounds of laughter fade into the morning as the dawn blooms, and wan, grey ribbons of light pass through the grimy glass and to cast wavering patterns of light on the floor.

Quiet; the room is quiet, save for the muted chatter of Percy Weasley's voice as he sits, cross-legged on the filthy kitchen floor, beside Oliver Wood.

"You alright, Oliver?" he asks softly as Oliver, his eyes closed and his lips parted, shifts against him. He eases against Percy, and rests his head on Percy's shoulder.

A contented grunt escapes his chapped lips.

"'m alright," he says. His voice is hoarse, stretched thin and ragged by the night's festivities; and the hours he has spent sitting with Percy.

"Alright," Percy says, seemingly satisfied with Oliver's assurance. He now moves, inching his hand across his own thigh, before allowing it to rest on Oliver's. He offers him a consoling pat on the knee and Oliver, twisting his body so that he is turned toward Percy, reaches out. Without a word of explanation or intent, he catches Percy's hand on his knee and covers it with his own.

"Ollie," Percy whispers. "Come on."

He feels the motion as Oliver shakes his head, even as he does not raise it from Percy's shoulder.

Percy sighs: he isn't sure how to proceed. He doesn't want to push Oliver away – he _doesn't_ \- but they are so exposed, sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Pursing his lips in contemplation, Percy doesn't get to make the choice as to what he next wants to do: Oliver squeezes his hand, deciding for him.

With Percy's hand clasped in his, Oliver lifts it from where it rests on his knee: he raises it to his mouth and, tightening his grip, Oliver presses Percy's fingers flush against his lips. Parting them, Oliver slides his tongue over the fingertips, before taking Percy's fingers wholly into his mouth.

"Ollie," Percy moans at once anxious that someone should see, and desirous for Oliver's advances to continue; "not here."

Oliver nods and, his tongue still wrapped around Percy's fingers, he mumbles his reply: "Yes," he says, "here."

Percy swallows. He needs to resist, he _should_ resist, but – well, it's _Oliver_.

And Oliver has always – always – had the knack of being able to convince Percy to do ... well, anything.

"Come on," Oliver says, extricating Percy's fingers from his mouth. A strand of saliva connects them still, forming a kind of sticky, translucent bridge from finger to mouth. Gripping Percy's hand firmly, Oliver guides it under his t-shirt and presses it flat against his stomach; wet fingers splayed against toned flesh.

Closing his eyes, Percy allows himself a moment to take in the feel of Oliver: the surprising smoothness of his skin, the coarseness of the hair that peeks out from under the waistband of his trousers, the pinch-able, pliable layers that his fingers are suddenly, _desperately_ itching to grasp, and the inescapable wondering at what Oliver will taste like, _just now_ , one Percy's lips, on Percy's tongue, on Percy ...

"Alright," Percy says, or maybe he just thinks it, he isn't sure, he is only sure that his hands are on Oliver and he can't bear to tear them away and when he opens his eyes again there it is, _that_ smile, and he knows he was never going to put a stop to this, not tonight, not ever.

"Alright," Oliver nods. Beaming, he eases down onto the floor beside Percy, so that he is lying flat on his back. Percy, biting his bottom lip, shifts too: resting on one elbow, he never removes the palm of his hand from Oliver's belly and, once they are both settled, Percy pushes Oliver's shirt up, exposing his abdomen to the dawn light, and to Percy's increasingly lascivious gaze. He leans down to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses all across Oliver's stomach, and Percy cannot suppress a satisfied sigh as Oliver squirms delightedly beneath him.

As Oliver's responses become more vocal, Percy's kisses degenerate into alternating licking and sucking motions, and he runs his hand, flat and hard, over Oliver's front before slipping his it into his pants, where he is delighted to find that Oliver's cock is already semi-hard when his long, outstretched fingers reach it. Grunting, Oliver thrusts up into the air, urging Percy to increase the contact and Percy, whose own cock is starting to stiffen and throb, acquiesces. Rolling over, he manoeuvres so that he is straddling Oliver and before he is entirely sure of what he is doing, he finds that he is grinding against Oliver, and Oliver is grinding against him and they're clutching at one another, holding each other close and _Merlin_ , it aches so exquisitely: all rough, sporadic movements and twisting fabric on the _fucking kitchen floor_ of all places and Percy feels as though he can't stop, he can't, he can't, he can't; and even if he could, he doesn't know if he would (though he _should_ , he knows he _should_ , this is no position for a future Minister for Magic to be caught in and ) –

 _"Perce!"_ Oliver spits, gripping Percy's arms and stilling his movements momentarily. "Percy, _please_ ," he begs, his eyes wide and searching and his cheeks flushed with exertion.

Percy, pausing to catch his breath, nods. Easing back on his haunches, he busies himself by peeling Oliver's trousers down over his hips, exposing his cock, and Percy cannot suppress a moan at the sight of it. Licking his lips, Percy inches down, positioning his head over Oliver's groin. Wrapping his hand firmly around the base of Oliver's cock, Percy brings his lips to its head, swirling his tongue slowly around the tip, savouring the bite of pre-ejaculate on his lips, and on his tongue.

Soon, Percy can feel the increase in both the frequency and veracity of Oliver's writhing, and he knows Oliver is close: running his lips and tongue along the length of Oliver's shaft until he is quivering on the precipice of climax, Percy takes a deep, muffled breath and sucks, fiercely, finally on his cock. And as he does, Percy feels Oliver's hands clutch desperately at the back of his head: he feels the sharp, painful tug as Oliver grabs at fistfuls of hair and bucks awkwardly against Percy's mouth until all Percy knows is the taste – the _taste_ \- of him; of Oliver.


End file.
